“In accidentals, yes, very much changed; but the large sunny rooms and the grand seaward outlook are the same. I went first to the nursery on the top story, and, Carlita, I could replace every chair and table. I could see James and Leonard and Auguste busy with their books and playthings; and there was one back window that had a little embrasure, which was very dear and familiar to me. In that nook I read ‘Robinson Crusoe,’ and the ‘Exiles of Siberia,’ and best of all, ‘The Arabian Nights.’ I sat down there and tried to recall the long, long, happy days in which it was my favourite retreat. I stood and looked downward over the balustrade, and fancied I saw again my beautiful mother, clothed in white and sparkling with gems, going out with father to some dinner or ball; and I remembered how I used to thus watch for her coming, and call her; and how she would stand still and lift her face full of love and smiles to bid me a ‘good-night.’ Once at a little ceremony of this kind I dropped her a white rose, and she put it in her bosom, and my father laughed and called me ‘darling’ and I went to bed that night more happy than I can tell you. I stayed some time in the nursery, and longer in my mother’s room. It had only sweet memories, for I never went into it without meeting a smile, no, not even on that last day of her beautiful life, when she called us all to her side for the long farewell. She died, as I have often told you, singing. She had sung, more or less, all her life long; and she went away faintly and sweetly singing, “‘Hark, they whisper, angels say, Sister spirit, come away;’ and after a pause, still more softly-- “‘Tell me, my soul, can this be death?’ See, Carlita, I brought some sprays from the honeysuckle she planted on the seaward porch. Though November, it is in bloom. My father put flowers from this same vine in her hands after she was dead. It was a lovely, happy memory, Carlita. In a little sitting-room I found a window pane on which Annette St. Ange and my mother had written their names, enclosing them in a very perfect circle, and I brought the glass away with me. I could not bear to think that some stranger, in the destruction of the room, might perhaps tread the names beneath his feet.” “Grandmother must have loved Mrs. St. Ange?” “They were close friends, especially after the disappearance of Mr. St. Agne.” “Mother, what was the meaning of that disappearance--death?” “People generally spoke of it as death; but my father and mother knew better; and when Annette had passed beyond mortal care and suffering something occurred--I think the marriage of her granddaughter in Paris--that led my mother to tell me the truth. To-day, Carlita, I saw Annette St. Ange again, though not as I recollected her in life.” “What do you mean, mother?” “I saw her picture; the one taken soon after her marriage, and in her marriage garments--I was at the Loan Exhibition.”